


Misery Loves Company

by doesitsay



Category: Being Human (UK), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, True Blood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doesitsay/pseuds/doesitsay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>End of the world. ..horseman. without the horses.<br/>What to do when immortal and bored. <br/>Sass what else? !</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misery Loves Company

**Author's Note:**

> Three fandoms favourite at the time 5 years ago. Reposting here.

The scene was set like one of those jokes you used to hear before everything got too politically correct.

There was an Englishman, an Irishman and a person from Sweden, standing on a rocky outcrop overlooking the end of mankind.

OK, not the best material for a joke, but it was unlikely that there were many people around to complain.

These were three people who probably contributed towards mankind's decimation over the past 1000 years, and their own kind had also given help to hasten the end of the devolved apes for a lot longer than that. However, these three had an affinity to some of humankind that was deeper than the average predator.

In this case though they were merely bystanders to apocalypse.

Mankind had done this to themselves with little help.

"I guess, this is it."

The shortest of the three, bleach blonde hair brightening the ensuing gloom, lit up in a desultory manner. Rhetoric was his favourite pastime at the moment.

He took a casual drag of the cigarette with one hand then switched vices and hands, for a bottle of Jack.

It was empty.

He looked at it, shrugged, then threw it over his shoulder and looked on at the smoking pile of city in front of them.

With a sidelong glance at his colleagues, he snorted out a littering disclaimer.

"Should I recycle? Hardly seems worth it."

English, perhaps two hundred or so years ago he was of the stiff upper lip variety. Since his introduction to the undead, he had tried his best to avoid that stereotype.

His recent activities had affected his wardrobe.

Black jeans, ripped shirt, torn leather jacket. Once long in it's now tattered splendour, it resembled flesh hanging off a rotten corpse. He had thought of that analogy himself in recent hours, so it wasn't an insulting description.

He felt a bit like a rotting corpse himself.

Barely a drink of any substance in the past few weeks, he probably would have launched himself at a rotting corpse if it zombied itself by.

Sneering, in a way that seemed the right thing to do, he turned to his companions. Less companions perhaps – more people who seemed randomly in the same place as him.

Taking another long pull on his cigarette, he thought he should say something else.

"Soo, tall dark and hairy.. what's your story?"

His comments were aimed at the nearest vampire to him.

A foot or so taller, long curly hair, in need of a shave. Another leather jacket, better condition this time. Not much though.

"Me? This thing here, noo... it's got nothing to do with me. I loved humanity, I really did, it just never seemed to love me back."

Ahh Spike thought. Another paranoid Irishman. Great.

"Nobody said it was your fault, Irish. I wager though, we've all had a hand in this little disaster and you look like you've been in the wars."

The downtrodden, angry, and dishevelled Irishman took affront.

"The names Mitchell pal. I don't know what your problem is but I hardly think this is the time to pick a fight."

Mitchell took time out from his anger as he noticed Spikes cigarette.

"Hey, have you got another one of those..." he indicated with a gloved hand.

Spike reacted instinctively.

"Sod off."

Then thought for a second.

"Hang on..."

Spike reached into his back pockets as if searching for treasure, with an unsure look on his face. He tried the other, then came up with something. He held it up triumphantly to Mitchell's wide and welcoming eyes.

Though it was bent and half broken, Mitchell took the proffered crushed cigarette. He was not likely to get a better offer this side of Armageddon.

"Cheers,"

Mitchell reached into his own pockets and smiled an apology, showing his nearly empty hands (his bent smoke notwithstanding).

"Err, you got a light..?"

Spike gave a crooked "knew it" look at him, and lit it from his own glowing ember.  
Handing it back,

"Don't think from this we're engaged or anything. I'm not a poof."

Mitchell, frowned then laughed back at him.

"Jeesus man, can you be less pc? What century are you from anyway?"

Spike replied in his uncommon voice. His mother would have recognized his tone.

"19th actually. And you?"

"Ah, just the 20th, 1900's."

The two nodded at each other as they had shared a secret.

Smoking, surveying the scene in front of them.

Smoke, clouds, acid and radioactive rain threatening.

Brothers in blood.

If anyone had seen them the previous day, perhaps on horses, it would have been clear that an apocalypse was pending. Okay just three horseman of the apocalypse but you get the picture.

Mitchell looked at the blonde next to him and indicated to the blonde standing apart from them.

"Who's he? Did he come with you?"

Spike glanced over and shook his head. He was a bit wary of that one – very tall, hadn't blinked in ages, just looked at the ash cloud with a detached expression.

"Nah. He's been here since I arrived. Think he's so far up his own arse I don't think he's found his way out yet. Too good for the likes of us."

They both knew that the nordic type was ancient by their standards.

The statue turned his head towards them, and spoke languorously, with obvious disdain.

" You reek of humanity. The stench ...is nearly overpowering."

Quick as a flash Spike replied,

"I think you'll find Bjorn, that the stench, "  
he paused to indicate towards the glorious horizon and flicked some ash towards it,  
".. is coming from over there."

Mitchell looked back at Spike.

With everything else that had gone and was being forgotten, and contemplating his own self perpetuated demise, he thought he may as well go with this thought instead until something better came along.

"Not bad that, I like your style."

He put out his hand to Spike.

"I'm John Mitchell"

Spike looked at his hand as if it was a badly aimed insult, then shrugged. Unusual, vampire shaking hands. He put his own out in return and either side of his light, introduced himself.

"William."

He paused as if embarrassed.

"The bloody. Most people call me Spike. Some other people call me some other bad names, though I don't think its so much of a problem these days."

Cue ironic smirk.

Mitchell had a query that he asked with a smile.

"The bloody.. Spike?"

"Long story.." he mimicked hammering, "railway spikes.. get the drift?"

Mitchell nodded, took another drag.

"Ah yes, of course. We all have our... foibles you could say."

He wasn't about to give up any of his own yet. They were always too raw for him. However he wasn't going to judge anyone else anytime soon.

Bjorn blinked and turned back towards them.

"Eric."

The other two men turned towards him and Mitchell wanted to try his hand at some gallows humour as well.

"Are you deaf as well as rude? He's William.."

Spike mouthed to him a silent correction while pretending to scratch the back of his head,

" sorry yeah, ... Spike, "

nodding confirmation in apology,  
"and I'm John Mitchell."

Mitchell finished with his number one smile that he hadn't tried out recently. Lady killer, literally.  
The Swede was not affected by his badly shaven wiles.

"My name. Eric Northman."

"Ah, yes, of course it is."

Spike nodded as the name was inevitable. All three then continued to look at the darkening horizon.

"I don't know about you lot..."

Mitchell realized what he was missing

"but I could murder a cup of coffee"


End file.
